


perceptual equivalence

by sannlykke



Series: SASO 2017 [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: kise's eidetic memory has never failed him in his endeavors until now, faced with an enemy his magic seemingly cannot comprehend.





	perceptual equivalence

**Author's Note:**

> a fill for saso 2017 bonus round one (AU), for this particular [prompt](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9645074#cmt9645074): aomine is a literal being made of light, and kise's wizardry tries to contain him.
> 
> although like i mentioned on dw, this is more like light demon!aomine/magical artist!kise, so just...bear with me.
> 
> a mizuchi is a water dragon.

It’s never taken much for Ryouta to capture demons of any sort.  
  
He’s not a professional, really—there aren’t many professionals anymore in this line of work, and he spends more time flirting with customers at his studio instead of actually doing fieldwork. It’s no fun being stuck in the back room smelling of inkstone and wet brushes or running outside sweating in excess. In the end they all get caught easily, and hung out to dry in the wind.  
  
This morning Ryouta surveys his stock of paintings, each grotesque image captured on the canvases primed to go to new homes. Some whisper that surely nobody wants to have demons sealed in ink decorating their homes, that Ryouta must also be putting spells on his customers, but that is laughable. It’s exactly the sort of thing the wealthy like, an empty show of power, bought without knowing the full extent of what they’re dealing with.  
  
None of which is Ryouta’s business anymore once he sells them off. He’s awful at drawing things from imagination, but it’s different with things he can see. _That’s_ where the magic lies, after all—in his eyes.  
  
He’s about halfway through inventory when the sound of urgent footsteps coming towards his door. Ryouta looks up, a perfunctory smile prepared, but it freezes at the look on the villagers’ faces. “Yes?”  
  
“There’s a building on fire—“  
  
“And what does that have to do with me?”  
  
One of the bolder ones steps up, swallowing, “It’s a demon, sir. The…it’s the _Crowned Tyrant_.”  
  
Ryouta stares at him, feeling the air around him cool. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
  
  
It’s true there are few professional demon-catchers and mages left in the land, and for good reason. The Crowned Tyrant had been terrorizing the adjacent country for two years now, killing and driving away the magical talents in the land. There were too many rumors about it for Ryouta to be entirely sure what sort of demon it even was—some say a being of fire, a bolt of lightning, a gust of wind. It sounds more like a freak weather phenomenon than a supernatural entity, but sometimes those things are one and the same.  
  
When he arrives at the scene the inhabitants of the house have long fled, leaving behind only a spreading fire that would become dangerous if not contained immediately. Ryouta frowns, keeping his distance as he circles the cluster of huts; at least, the smoke does not smell enchanted to him. Though magical or not, fire is an issue to someone whose primary weapon consists of ink and parchment.  
  
(He’s not so bad with hand-to-hand combat, all things considered, but how could you punch a gust of wind if that’s what it really is?)  
  
Ryouta looks up, and he sees _light_.  
  
At first he can’t even tell what he’s looking at, so bright the object is on top of a roof that he has to shield his eyes. A white-hot glow tinged with blue that burns itself into his retinas, so visceral that he sees it even when he closes his eyes, jumping aside as he hears a telltale sound of explosions from far off. It’s holding a torch, Ryouta realizes when he opens his eyes again from behind the safety of a few pine trees. A man—no, light in the shape of a man.  
  
The man looks at him and grins, his smile a sharp blue crevice on a face that Ryouta still feels dizzy looking at.  
  
“So you’re the person I’ve heard so much about. Kise Ryouta, right?”  
  
He drops the torch, setting alight yet another rooftop. Ryouta blinks. It’s hard to look menacing wielding a goat hair brush instead of a sword, but many a demon had fallen victim to that very train of thought. He grins back, waving cheerily as his hand reaches towards a scroll. “Eh? Oh, of course you’d have! Everyone knows me from around—are you here for my signature?”  
  
“Something like that,” the Crowned Tyrant says, jumping down from the building. Up close, or perhaps because he was speaking, his outlines seem more defined, the muscles and set of his jaw apparent. He’s handsome, Ryouta realizes, in a feral sort of way. The demon saunters up to Ryouta, the light radiating off his body more menacing than light has any right to be. “I’m Daiki, by the way.”  
  
The way he casually says it seems more like an omen of death rather than a simple introduction. _Daiki. Wow, he's not even subtle_. He isn’t holding any other weapons, but the trail of dead he’s left behind is more than enough of a threat. Ryouta stands his ground, looking up at the Tyrant—no, _Daiki_ —with a pleasant smile. “Yeah?”  
  
Then Daiki  _moves_ , and Ryouta finds his back connecting with one of the trees he’d been hiding behind, the pain immediate and biting. Daiki yawns, having the nerve to pick his nose as he stands there watching Ryouta stand up again. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.”  
  
“You…” Ryouta spits out the splinters in his mouth, narrowing his eyes. He hadn’t even seen the blow coming. The fire had spread, flickering before them as it consumes the rest of the buildings, its heat making sweat bead at his temples. It is then he realizes something. “Oh.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You use the fire as a cover,” Ryouta says slowly, his fingers touching the dry paper in his belt. He only has one chance, before the fire gets to them—or before Aomine decides he’s not worth the trouble of keeping alive after all. “So nobody can tell what you really are. Don’t you?”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“What, am I wrong?”  
  
“Maybe,” Daiki replies, taking another step forward. “Now, are you gonna stop yapping and fight me, or—“  
  
Now, Ryouta thinks, whipping out his scroll, the tip of his brush already touching it by the time the demon realizes what is going on. Ink bleeds into the paper, but instead of taking the shape of the man burning bright before him, it simply stops and gathers at the center, as if confused where to run. He feels his heart sink instantly. “Eh?”  
  
Daiki smirks, going into position. “You think you could capture _light_ on paper? Forget thinking you were smart, this has gotta be the dumbest idea ever.”  
  
He rushes Ryouta, and though this time he raises his arms in preparation, the strike sends him flying. Ryouta could feel the Daiki's power burn his skin as he rolls to a stop on the ground just a few feet from the fire, gasping. At least his hands weren’t burned, but it’s little comfort as he sees feet coming towards him.  
  
“Save your breath, human. You’re pretty, but I see you’re not worth playing around after all.”  
  
“That’s not all,” Ryouta says through clenched teeth, and he pulls out another, heavier scroll from his belt, flinging it into the flames. There is an unnatural screech as the paper touches the fire, and Daiki stops, staring as a dark form shoots out from the blaze. “ _Mizuchi, to me!_ ”  
  
The serpentine form wraps itself around Ryouta’s body, its spirit mingling with his; he instantly feels the coolness of its scales shield him from the heat, his fingernails elongating, gaze sharpening. Power courses through him, at once rejuvenating and frightening—it’s a method of last resort, but he would need all his wits about him for _this_ particular opponent.  
  
This time, Ryouta rushes at Daiki, lashing out with a torrent of water. The light streaming through the wall of water is bright, but less piercing to his eyes now that there’s something physical between them. He slams into Daiki, and both of them fall to the ground.  
  
—But it’s not enough. He reaches out to grab Daiki's wrist, only for the other to reach him first, the pain dulled by water but not quite enough for him to bite down the yelp. Ryouta feels blood beading at the bottom of his lips as he pulls away roughly, his arm too mangled now to do much of anything. Not that it matters, since he isn’t going to be painting anything today. He stands ready for another round, but Daiki is looking at the sky instead of at him. “Hey! I’m coming, if you don’t—“  
  
“Ah, shut up,” Daiki growls, waving at him nonchalantly. Ryouta frowns, but he could hear it too now—a high-pitched sound, birdlike, in the distance. “Satsuki’s coming to scold me again. I ain’t fighting anymore today, not with you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You think you can keep fighting like that? Be grateful I’m letting you live today.”  
  
“That’s not—“  
  
Ryouta raises his other arm, but the sudden flare of Daiki's body makes him unable to do anything but cry out, instinctively covering his face. When the flare is gone, so is Daiki, leaving behind nothing but the smouldering ruins of the houses he’d set aflame.  
  
_Huh?_  
  
Who was this Satsuki person he’d been talking about? Ryouta looks up at the sky as he feels the spirit leave him, taking flight high into the trees again, searching for a new river to roost. But he can see nothing—only clouds and the sun hanging high above, warm and golden. But when he closes his eyes, all he can see is cold blue light.  
  
“What the hell…”  
  
If this Daiki…if he is the Crowned Tyrant, he’s a far cry from what the legends had told him. Not his abilities—Ryouta’s certain, however unwillingly, that at this point Daiki's much stronger than himself and could probably kill him if he wants to.  
  
But he hadn’t. _Be grateful I’m letting you live today_  
  
Well, now things are getting interesting. The throbbing pain in his right arm seems inconsequential compared to the weight those words hold—Ryouta smiles wryly, leaning down to pick up the things scattered about and wet on the ground. He has no idea where Daiki had gone, what he’s about to do, but one thing’s for sure.  
  
Ryouta’s going to find a way to copy that light of his.


End file.
